When Goblins Rage (Book 3) (7 page)

Bigshot groaned as Quietly turned to smile at the elf.

“Thief steal more than shiny thing,” Quietly said. “Thief steal Eventide's Heart. It big thing to goblins. Only small thing to thief. Elf know what it like to have important thing stolen. Elf get revenge. Always. Eventide say elf is powerful. Name elf Bloodhand. He knows elf. He not want enemy of elf. Just ask question. Elf seen thief? Please tell where thief. It too hard for Eventide to say.”

Eventide. The god of goblins.

A god Grim and Rule had often laughed at. A god invented by the goblins, they said, so they could pretend to be more than what they were. Primitives scratching out their existence across the lands.

But where Rule tried to eradicate the small creatures, Grim had tolerated them as an amusement.

Sure, he'd mock them and their pitiful beliefs.

But he wouldn't kill them for it.

Now, looking at the open desperation on the small goblin's face, she understood why. Because they were like children. And not for the second time in the same day was she suddenly reminded of the streets of Lostlight.

And began to wonder if she was getting soft.

“I ain't seen your thief,” she told the small goblin. “Told you that already. If I had, I ain't known it. In the past few weeks, all I've seen are bodies. What your kind ain't killing, the Grey Jackets are torturing and murdering. Only living things I've seen have been you and them. So maybe you mean one of them? Well, if you do, then you only got to head back that way.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Won't have to go far. And there's only fifty or so of the bastards.”

Quietly nodded. Smiled his shy smile again, then rubbed at his cheeks with both hands as though pushing warmth into them. His eyes glazed over slightly, and she had the feeling he wasn't quite there. As though he was looking out over a great distance.

But, from what she knew of goblins, she figured he was simply trying to connect with his own brain.

She grunted.

And he kept rubbing his cheeks.

Only then did she notice he didn't have a goblinknife. Instead, he had a small razor at his hip.

She'd heard some goblins were magic-users. And wondered if the hairs still prickling the back of her neck were warning her of that.

But she couldn't smell the acrid stink of magic.

Not yet.

“Eventide thanks Bloodhand,” he said suddenly, in a way that made her think of the old priestesses she'd met. Priestesses of Veil, who'd haunted the ruins of the old temple used as a training ground by the Jukkala'Jadean. The priestesses were mostly bitter and old. As a young initiate of an order of assassins, Nysta had thought of them as little more than an irritation.

Yet, her few interactions had made her feel like a child being mocked by an adult. And the elf didn't like to feel mocked. It made her palms itch.

“He thank me enough to tell you fellers to get the fuck out of my way?”

Quietly nodded at Bigshot, who looked a little disappointed.

“Elf go,” the goblin boss growled. “Only because Eventide say so.”

“You say more,” Quietly nudged the goblin boss.

“I not want to,” Bigshot folded his arms defiantly. Almost petulantly.

“Say,” Quietly said, with a hint of steel in his voice. “Eventide say so.”

Definitely like the priestesses, the elf thought with a twist of her mouth. She hadn't known goblins had priests. But if they had their own god, it only seemed natural.

“You Bloodhand,” Bigshot said, as though every word was cutting his tongue. “You named now. Mobs hunt you. They think you thief. But it big mistake.” This time he flashed the small goblin an impish smirk. “Not our mistake, though. It Quietly.”

Quietly shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “It easy mistake to make. Elf powerful. Like magnet. Me not to know.” Then he eyed the other goblin and chuckled mischievously. “But now you say rest of it.”

“Me say enough!” He shot back. “She elf. She not need it.”

“She named! You say!”

For a moment, she thought Bigshot might hack at the smaller goblin with his goblinknife. His calloused fists certainly tightened hard around his weapon.

But he let out a frustrated sigh and turned toward the elf.

Squinted as though looking at the sun, then stomped closer so he could speak in a voice low enough not to carry to the rest of his mob.

“Me say this, because Eventide say to. Not because me want to,” he growled. His gnarled and scarred face twisted in anger and helplessness. Settled on resignation as his shoulders slumped. He let go of his goblinknife and looked down at his feet. Mumbled; “We sorry.”

Nysta blinked. “You what?”

“I said we sorry,” he hissed, waving his fist up at her. “You not make me say again, or me cut elf neck! Fuck what Quietly say!”

“Good words,” Quietly mumbled in approval. He didn't seem to notice the dark look Bigshot threw at him.

Unsure of what to say, she nodded.

She wanted to spit in the goblin leader's face, but had enough fear in her guts to be afraid of making them mad. Quietly's hold on them seemed tight, but she didn't want to push them. Couldn't trust the little goblin wouldn't change his mind.

Bigshot looked impatient. He eyed her warily, as though she might bite. “You go now?”

“Sure, feller. Was aiming to.” She took a hesitant step toward him. Saw him stiffen. His hand moved toward the hilt of his goblinknife. She kept her tone even. “Mind if I head past?”

He glanced again at Quietly, who gave a shy nod.

“You go wherever,” he said, throwing his hands skyward. “Me not give fuck no more. It too much to think about.”

The other goblins looked ready to surround her.

But only Stormer scowled when Quietly motioned for them to move aside to let the elf pass.

All the same, Nysta kept her hands close to
Go With My Blessing
and
Peace Makes Plenty
. Still didn't trust them.
 

Her mouth dry, she moved cautiously, eyes scanning their faces. Searching for a sign they might break the temporary truce.

But none seemed eager to do so.

As she passed Quietly, he reached out with a small froglike hand and brushed her thigh. “Bloodhand?”

She looked down. Considered cutting off his hand, but figured her day had been exciting enough. “What is it now, feller?”

“Eventide say you good fighter. Knows you will kill many enemies. Even our enemies. He say you fight thief soon. But he say stop fighting self. Because you not enemy. You best there is.” The serious expression looked out of place given the shy look he'd worn since she'd seen him.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said.

“It okay,” he smiled. “Eventide know you know when you need.”

“Yeah,” she reached up slowly and rubbed at the scar on her cheek which had begun to itch. “Riddles. Priestesses all spoke the fucking same.”

“Me not understand.”

She let her mouth twist hard up toward the scar on her cheek. She pulled free and headed toward the next line of trees. “Then I reckon now you know how it feels.”

“Bloodhand?” He called again as she stepped past the other goblins. “Do not give mage your heart!”

She thought of Chukshene. Stupid spellslinger was often in her thoughts.

“No chance of that,” she growled. “Ain't got one to give away.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

For a long time after, the elf's thoughts were on an old legend one of the priestesses had told her when she was still new to the Jukkala'Jadean.

The story was older than time, claimed the priestess. In hushed tones, she'd claimed the legend to be older than not just Grim and Rule, but even older than her own goddess, Veil.

“How old, then?” Nysta had asked.

“Almost as old as the world's bones.”

It began as most stories of the time before Veil did. In a world which was as black as night. Where the sun couldn't penetrate the heavy clouds. Where ice covered the land like frozen flesh.

It was a dead land, where only dead things hunted the living. Things such as the Draug. And the Dhampir. And, above them all, the dreaded Vampire Lords who fed on the blood of the living.

It was a time when the elfs lived in the darkest caves, hiding from the world. When humans gathered in small pockets to defend themselves from the evils which roamed the world. And goblins scurried in the dark like spiders, preying on the weak. A godless and barbaric time where currency was measured in blood.

All of which changed when the skies were turned to fire. A fire which boiled the land and created the same mountains which ripped up from the ground to the north. The Bloods.

In most stories, it was from this fire that the gods were birthed. Veil and her eleven siblings.

But that wasn't the story the priestess told. Instead, she claimed the fire heralded the arrival of a single Goddess who rode a dragon to conquer the world and would drive the Vampire Lords back into their fortresses where they remained until the coming of Grim and Rule.

She would rule over the world for a thousand years, a creature of fury who brought the sun to the land and enriched the lives of the elfs, the orks, and even humans.

Her gift to the world was the tools from which civilisation would birth. From her, and not Veil's siblings, the seed of life spewed across the land.

It wasn't the crude legend itself which began to haunt the elf's mind. But, in the echoes of the goblin's last words, it was the finale which crept around her brain like a secret she shouldn't know.

Because the twelve children of the goddess grew tired of being ruled. And, as is the nature of those who lust for power, they struggled against her. Eventually, they trapped her. Bound her in chains she could not break.

Then they tore out her heart and carved it into twelve pieces, one for each to eat.

But one of the children refused their portion. Instead, a piece of the goddess' heart was saved. Kept hidden from the world, the priestess said, until it was needed. And it was the strongest part, because it contained all the rage the goddess had buried deep within her heart.

The murderous children became the new gods, and would revel in their powers until the coming of Grim and Rule, who slayed them all.

Afterwards, the priestess refused to even talk about it. Had claimed she'd said nothing of the kind and knew no stories other than the ones which spoke of Veil and her siblings creating the world.

The priestess snorted at the story Nysta recounted back to her in hope of hearing more. A frightened expression hidden deep within her old eyes. “A mother to the gods? What a foolish notion, child. Get such things out of your head.”

Her reaction had confused the young Nysta. So she'd turned her thoughts away from old stories and back to the deadly arts the Jukkala
were determined to teach.
 

She couldn't say why this story suddenly rose in her consciousness. But it suddenly sounded like a lesson she should heed. Never trust, it seemed to say. Not even your blood.

Which naturally brought an unbidden image of her half-brother, Raste.

Grimacing, the elf noted she already didn't trust her family.

Still, the image stuck in her head of the mother of twelve gods lying arched across a large rock somewhere. Heart still beating as it was torn from her chest.

Blood steaming in the frozen wind.

And twelve siblings gathered like wolves to the lamb.

To dip their fingers in maternal blood.

Shuddering as she wove through the thorns, the elf could almost feel the pain of the dying goddess. The wrenching agony not so much of the wound she'd suffered, but more the knowledge of her own children turning on her.
 

Consuming her.

A terrifying end.

She pushed through more walls of thorn, and was beginning to feel the thudding beat of despair in her chest. Began to suspect she was lost.

Or going in circles despite trying to aim for the mountains she could sometimes make out above the thick canopy.

Battling claustrophobia as she squeezed between the flow of trees too close together, the elf also found the pressure of trying to remain silent, while listening hard for even the slightest sound, to be almost too much to bear. The constant fear kept her teeth on edge and the muscles across her shoulders were tighter than steel cables.

Her breath, misted with cold, the only real sound other than the constant thrumming of her heartbeat.

She'd paused many times to calm herself. To stop from screaming just to break the awful controlled silence.

Adding to her feeling of being close to the brink of insanity was the realisation it would be night soon. She must have been unconscious for longer than she'd thought.

At this time of year, it grew dark quickly. And, with the clouds rolling thick overhead, she didn't feel any surprise as a few dusty flakes of snow managed to penetrate the knotted branches from above. She watched one such pale sliver as it drifted in front of her, and wondered at the noiseless motion.

How soft it seemed.

How perfectly harmless and beautiful.

Yet it heralded more danger than most would realise, so her expression was sour as she used her knives to pry apart a thin curtain of thorny brush.

With the snow came the brutal biting cold. And although her body was able to handle more extreme temperatures than most humans, she was hungry.

And tired.

Felt weaker with every step. Which made her feel the cold even more.

She needed shelter.

Not just from the weather, but from the possibility there were still Grey Jackets on her trail. Or goblins. She still didn't trust they'd leave her alone.

Reminded herself again that goblins weren't known for keeping truces.

She cursed loudly as her jacket caught on more thorns. Had to tug hard to pull herself free.

And caught movement deep within the trees.

Froze. Wanted to slap herself for having broken her silence.

Trapped her breath and held it, feeling only the sharp whisper of cold air on her cheek as her eyes drilled into the shadows.

Ears strained for sound, but she hadn't heard anything the first time.